She breathed deeply, and he breathed sympathetically. ‘Now see here, missie. ‘I must get a handkerchief. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion. I'm a slave to my word. —I do not congratulate you on your success.
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